by Amy Tolnitch
Something in the woman’s softly worded question put Aimili’s senses on alert. “Do I know you?”
The woman gave a bitter laugh. “Nay, my lady.” She tilted her head, studying Aimili.
“My friends will be looking for me,” Aimili said, once more attempting to brush by the woman. With one hand, she held the dog, but the other slipped inside the folds of her mantle to grasp the dagger.
“Please, my lady,” the woman said, clutching Aimili’s arm. “I pray you listen to me for just a moment.”
Aimili stopped. “Who are you?”
“My name is Madeleine MacVegan.”
Aimili’s eyes widened and she pulled free of the woman’s grip. “MacVegan!”
“Please, my lady. I mean no harm, I swear.”
“What do you want of me?”
“I only wish to speak with you.”
Aimili shifted the dog in her arm and drew the dagger from beneath her mantle. “If this is a trick to hold me while your clansmen gather, be assured that I am not helpless. I have killed before and would do so again.”
“Nay. ’Tis only me.”
“Whatever you wish to say, be quick about it.”
The woman glanced down at the dagger, then lifted her gaze. “I am … was sister to Symund MacVegan.”
“Brona’s murderer.”
“No! That is what I must tell you. I thought that you being not of MacCoinneach blood might believe me. Symund and I were very close. He was my twin. I know that he loved Brona, loved her deeply. It grieved him true that she favored another, but Symund loved her.”
“Loved her so much that he could not bear for another man to claim her heart.”
Madeleine shook her head. “Symund would never have hurt Brona. I would swear this to you on my brother’s grave.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Padruig slew the wrong man.”
“You cannot know this. According to the story, Padruig found Symund with the blade in his hand, yet wet with Brona’s blood.”
“I remember the day well. And the story. It was not Symund.”
Aimili wanted to disbelieve her, but she was so earnest, so passionate in her plea that it gave Aimili pause. “It is hard to believe a relative, a sibling, could be capable of such an act, but—”
Madeleine stepped closer, a flush reddening her cheeks. “You do not understand. Symund was my twin, my best friend. Though I was not there, I knew the instant Symund found Brona dead. I felt his anguish rip through his soul as if it were mine own.”
Aimili stared at her and knew in her heart the woman spoke true. On the heels of her realization came a sudden, crippling sense of danger. It wound around her chest and tightened in her throat. And Madeleine MacVegan was not the source.
“Aimili!” a man’s voice shouted.
Alarm flashed in Madeleine’s eyes. “I must go,” she whispered, then ran, pulling the hood of her mantle close around her face.
“Aimili!” the voice shouted again.
“Here.” She stepped out from between the stalls to find a clearly furious Padruig, followed closely by Magnus, Freya, and the other men. Each wore an identical expression of concern, but Padruig’s was colored by anger.
Aimili quickly tucked away her dagger.
“Oh, Aimili, where have you been? We thought something had befallen you.” Freya’s face was pale, and she touched Aimili’s arm as if to reassure herself. Aimili immediately felt guilty for bringing distress to Freya, already overset by the Angus Ransolm incident.
“I … I got turned around, ’tis all.” She smiled at Freya. “’Tis very crowded.”
Ignoring her husband’s scowl, she asked, “What are you doing here, Padruig? I did not know you were joining us today.”
She was pretty sure she heard him grind his teeth.
Instead of responding, he turned to one of the men behind Magnus. “Why were you not guarding my wife?”
The man’s throat worked. Aimili started to excuse him, but Magnus stopped her with a shake of his head.
“I… we were but watching the monkey for a minute, Laird,” the guard said, pointing to a small brown and white monkey drawing a piece of bread from behind a startled onlooker’s ear. “When we turned back, the lady was gone.”
Aimili frowned. She’d not seen the guards when she emerged from the dog seller’s tent. Perhaps she’d simply missed them in the crush of people.
Before she could think on it further, Padruig turned, his disapproving gaze focused on her. “And you, my lady.” He opened his mouth to continue, but at that moment caught sight of the dog. “What … is that?” he asked, pointing.
The dog chose that moment to awake and let out a yelp.
Freya giggled, choked it back, then burst into gales of laughter. “Oh, Padruig, if only you could see your face.”
Aimili tried to maintain her composure, but in the end gave up and joined Freya in laughter. When she could catch herself, she announced, “My new guard dog.”
Even Magnus tittered at that.
Padruig looked up at the sky as if asking God for assistance. His shoulders began to shake and when he lowered his head, Aimili was stunned to see that her taciturn husband was actually laughing.
“Well,” he said. “I can see I have nothing to worry about, then.”
As soon as they returned to Castle MacCoinneach, Aimili bustled off to the kitchen with her new charge. Padruig headed for the sanctity of his solar, but Magnus intercepted him.
“Why did you come to Morisaig, Laird?” Magnus’s gaze was patently suspicious.
“I am no sure.”
“Missed your bride?”
“No. I, uh, decided I should likely inspect what might be available for purchase locally.” By the saints, did his reason sound as feeble to Magnus as it did to him?
“Ah.” Magnus’s tone said it all.
Padruig glanced at his friend. “’Twas not because I distrusted you to watch over Freya and Aimili.”
Magnus gave him a wry smile. “Though that is exactly what happened.”
“Aimili is not the easiest lass to keep track of. I fault the other men. They know better than to allow themselves to be distracted. A fortnight of supervising the gong farmers should remind them.”
“I purchased this for Freya,” Magnus said, pulling the brooch out of his pouch. “She admired it, but refused to buy it.”
“Freya? My sister passed on the opportunity to buy a pretty trinket? She should have had enough coin.”
“She did not wish to part with it. Her only purchase was some cowbane for Efrika.”
“Cowbane?”
“Aye.” Magnus chuckled. “I believe Efrika mixed up something special for Grigor afore your arrival.”
“God bless the woman, though at times she scares me. Cowbane.” Padruig shook his head.
“I think Freya feels guilty about the loss of coin from Angus Ransolm.”
Padruig sighed. “’Tis not her fault. It was a bad bargain from the outset.”
“Aye, but Ransolm was right about one thing—his coin would have greatly benefited the clan.”
“At the cost of Freya’s happiness and most likely her life.” Padruig scowled as he pushed open the door to his solar. “I did not return to Castle MacCoinneach for that.”
“Perhaps you should explain as much to Freya. ‘Twill put her heart at ease.”
“I shall.”
Alasdair awaited them in the solar. He sat on a stool staring at a piece of parchment.
“Tell me you bear good tidings,” Padruig said as he sat and stretched out his legs.
“I fear not, Laird.” Alasdair’s expression looked as if someone had died. “There is a problem with our stores of grain.”
“A problem?”
“The oats have been destroyed by some kind of insect.”
“All?”
“Nearly. Some of the wheat, as well.”
“How did this happen? What kind of insect?”
“I am no sure. The grains are eaten up.�
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“What have we left?”
“Very little. ’Tis bad, Padruig. We can possibly last through Christmas, with very judicious use of our stores. ’Twill be, at best, a lean winter.”
“Damn Grigor,” Padruig cursed, standing to pace across the room. “Until I hear from Giselle, we hunt. Magnus, you know which of the men are the best hunters. We must do what we can to supplement our stores. The women and children can gather mushrooms and berries, and fish the loch. Everyone must join together in this.”
“The Lady Giselle—”
“Will aid us, I am sure.” Padruig scowled, hating that he could not solve the clan’s dilemma himself. But he could not feed his people on will alone.
“Some of your lady’s horses could be sold,” Alasdair commented.
“Mayhap,” Padruig told him, inwardly cringing at the idea of relying further on a de Grantham. A MacCoinneach now, he reminded himself. At least in name. “I shall explain our dilemma to the clan at supper.”
Magnus clapped him on the shoulder. “We shall get though this, Laird.”
“We have no choice.” Not for the first time, Padruig found himself wondering if the travails of the clan were a sign from God of his disfavor. Had he been right to return? To be sure, Grigor was worse than useless, but would another man be more worthy to bear the title of laird? Was this more punishment meted out by God for Padruig’s mistakes? He set his jaw. It was of no matter now. He was laird, the clan was in trouble, and it was his responsibility to see they survived.
Somehow.
Aimili sat curled on the window seat that eve waiting for Padruig. It had become a regular vigil, though this night she wore a chemise. I wonder what Padruig would do if he walked in and found me sitting here naked? She snorted. Most likely take one look and flee.
Though he was not completely immune to her. For too many nights, she’d lain in bed listening to him sitting in the darkness, her ears straining to hear the clink of a cup, a sigh, the uneven sounds of a man kept awake.
She looked down at Lyoness, as she’d christened her new dog. Once scrubbed and combed, she still resembled a tawny jumble of yarn, but just the occurrence of a bath and food had revived her.
Cai had yet to emerge from beneath the bed. What is that thing? he’d asked earlier. A rat?
When she’d told him Lyoness was a dog and her new companion, he’d snorted in obvious disgust. Looks like no more than a biteful.
Be nice, she’d told him.
Throughout their conversation, Lyoness had remained silent, her big brown eyes fixed on Cai’s muzzle sticking out from under the bed.
Aimili sighed and leaned against the wall of the window seat. Lyoness jumped into her lap and settled in. “I cannot believe things are so bad, and Padruig did not tell me,” she told the little dog, recalling Padruig’s grave announcements at supper. She stroked Lyoness, who gave her hand a lick.
The thunk of boot against wood preceded Padruig’s entrance. Aimili blinked and raised her head. She must have fallen asleep for a few moments, she thought. The fire had burned down and a brace of candles flickered in the draft from the doorway.
“Why are you not abed?” Padruig asked, poised in the open doorway.
Dear Lord, how tired she was of this, Aimili thought. Each night, seeking her bed and pretending to be asleep, knowing that her husband would delay coming to their chamber until he was sure he would not have to face her. She wasn’t sure how long she could… would keep up the polite pretense. “I want to talk with you.”
Padruig slowly shut the door and entered the chamber. “Is there something you require?”
Yes! she wanted to shout. Your attention. Your affection. Your treating me like something other than an unwanted burden! She said none of these things, gritting her teeth instead. “I did not know how bad things were.”
He sat with a grunt and poured a cup of wine. “’Tis not your worry.”
Aimili made herself count to ten. “I am your wife. I am a part of the clan now.”
“You have no interest in the management of Castle MacCoinneach. You have told me so more than once.”
His comments stung with truth. “Still, you should have told me, shared the problem with me.”
“Why? ’Tis my responsibility to deal with.”
“We are wed. We are supposed to share responsibilities.”
“Aimili, why distress yourself? Aye, we are wed, but …” He sighed and shook his head. “You would be just as happy living in the stable. The horses are your only concern. I accept this.”
I want more! she yearned to scream. I need more! She swallowed. “I … I feel that I should help.”
“By doing what? You know naught of seeing to the castle’s needs. This is a serious matter, Aimili, best left to those with knowledge of how to deal with it.”
He spoke as if he chastised a child.
“There must be something I can do.”
“Do you even know how many people I must see are fed and cared for? How many loaves of bread are required each day? How many barrels of ale? The number of cows we typically slaughter for use during the winter?” His voice rose and rose until he was shouting.
Aimili felt each question like the lash of a whip. She gripped Lyoness tight and stiffened her shoulders. “I told you afore we wed that I knew little of such things. You should have heeded my words and taken Morainn.”
He stared at her, his gaze cold. “Morainn was not offered to me.”
The blow would have been kinder had it been with his fist. “I am no a stupid woman. I can learn.” Why she would wish to, she did not know, but pride demanded the words.
“Aye, but that would mean time away from the stables.”
“I do know there are about four-score folk here at Castle MacCoinneach. I am not completely ignorant of affairs.”
“Oh? And what do you suggest they eat?”
She glared at him. “This is not my fault, Padruig.”
Her words seemed to deflate him, and he stared down at his cup. “Nay, it is not. I am sorry to be so harsh.”
“I could send to my family for food.”
“They have already rendered me a great service. Asides, I have sent to someone in England who will help.”
“England? Who?”
“Lady Giselle of Kindlemere. She owes me a boon.”
Aimili’s stomach turned over. A woman. “I see. Is that where you lived when you were … gone?”
“No at Kindlemere, but in England, aye.”
“Where you met Lady Giselle?”
“Aye. A good woman.” His voice held the unmistakable warmth of true affection.
Aimili’s throat burned. It appeared his cool indifference was reserved only for her. He clearly thought she could be of no help in solving the clan’s food shortage, as much as accusing her of only caring about her horses.
With the thought, Aimili sat up straighter. Her horses. Of course. “Have Magnus take Thunder and Pearl with him to Inverness. Thunder particularly should fetch a good price. If no one there can offer for him, tell Magnus to go to the Laird of the Burdine Clan.”
For a moment, Padruig appeared taken aback, obviously surprised she would make such an offer. What did he think of her? Did he believe her so selfish to hoard valuable animals rather than help the clan avoid starvation? “My thanks,” he finally said.
“You do not need to stand alone, Padruig.”
“I know no other way.”
“Mayhap, but has that way proved so successful for you?” She regretted her words at once when shadows darkened his face. “Padruig, I am sorry. I did not mean—”
“Aye, you did. ’Tis no more than many of the clan think. ’Tis no more than I deserve.”
Aimili debated telling him of her strange conversation with Madeleine MacVegan, but held back. He would be angry to discover she’d encountered a member of the MacVegan clan. Even if he believed Madeleine’s words, it would only make things worse.
“I did not know how much G
rigor had let conditions deteriorate,” he said. “Perhaps you should return to de Grantham Castle for a time.”
“You … you wish to send me away?”
He didn’t look at her. “’Twould be safer. I promised I would see you well taken care of, and I can no longer guaranty that.”
“An excuse,” she spat, anger mingled with hurt bubbling up inside her.
“You heard me at supper, Aimili. The situation is dire.”
“I am no child to be coddled, sent away to safety.”
“You will feel differently when your stomach cramps because it’s empty and the clan begins to gaze upon your horses with hungry eyes.”
“I will not leave.”
He stood. “You shall if I decide ’tis best.”
“You would force me—”
“Aye, if need be.” He picked up his flagon of wine and strode out of the chamber. “I will not watch you starve to death.”
Aimili stared at the doorway. “What difference would it make?” she asked the empty space behind him.
Sebilla was blissfully immersed in a warm bath when D’Ary suddenly appeared next to the tub. She shrieked and bent forward in the water, glaring at him. “How dare you?”
D’Ary looked every bit as astonished as Sebilla felt. His mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out and he gripped the side of the tub as if to hold himself upright. “I …” His golden gaze dropped and his jaw snapped shut.
“Get out of here,” she commanded in her most queenlike voice.
With a visible shake of his head, instead D’Ary looked up, caught her gaze, and gave her the most devastatingly seductive smile she’d ever seen. “I could wash your back,” he offered. “Or your front.”
“Get out.” By the gods, her voice was shaking.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Go!”
When he stood, the bulge in his braies turned her mouth dry. She clenched her fists under the water.
Whistling, he thankfully left her bathing chamber.
Hastily, Sebilla sprang out of the tub and pulled on clothing. Of all the times for me to decide to bathe without attendants, she thought, pulling a comb through her loose hair. Her hands were shaking and her whole body tingled in embarrassment and … No.
